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is more teeth than ever. But Vinton, biding her time in the hall with a large
knitting bag, quietly dons the contents thereof and crawls onto the stage as the
blue tiger. Oh, triumph! Yes, gentle reader, there are blue tigers. Someone
on the animal committee knew someone who had seen an article in some magazine
in some dentist’s office about a blue tiger of India or Thibet. After the animal
episode there comes the grand finale in the form of the League of Nations, in which
Lib is especially noticeable as Britannia ruling the waves (of the sea, not of her own
three hairs). We sing ‘Thou Gracious Inspiration,” our friends tell us how great
we are, and we return happily tired to bed on good terms with the world.
CorNELIA Oris SKINNER.

The Suppressed Debutante

Synopsis: Twenty-four hours before her début war was declared. The next
morning she began to “brush up” matriculation Latin and a few other articles in
her mental wardrobe.

S she sat in the “lib” she tried to shut her past from memory. Her eyes
A were on her book but her mind wandered disconsolately over the ceiling,

twined about the chandelier, and hopped nimbly over the golden globes.
Suddenly the tragedy of her past threatened to overwhelm her. With a tremendous
effort she thrust it into her subconscious, where it lay seething and bubbling while
she soothed her outer consciousness.

That evening the tympanic melodies floating into her room from the Victrola
stirred within her a deep and disagreeable memory. ‘Thanks to the faithful censor,
she knew nothing of it. She merely said, “I hate Victrolas; | hate anything made of
wood,” and began to shout the multiplication table. That same evening she gave
her evening dresses to “junk”? and hurled her cigarette case down the register.
Her outer consciousness was all serene. After writing a letter in Greek to her family
and composing a few sonnets, she went to bed refreshed and exalted. She had cast
memories from her and delved deeply into wisdom. But shades of Freud!—no
sooner had her eyelids closed than the seething cauldron of her subconscious
bubbled over. The debutante, no longer suppressed, took possession of her. Rising
hastily, she seized a bit of tulle and some earrings and pinned an ivy plant jauntily
over one shoulder, and fled into the hall. Her friends found her jazzing madly—
a wraith-like figure in the moonlight. Spellbound they watched her—all save one,
who hastened to summon a psychoanalyst. A few moments of whispered consulta-
tion sufficed to give him the details of the case. ‘‘There is a gap between the
personalities of the suppressed débutante and the student,” he said simply. “Only
one cure will be effective—she must Bridge the gap.” And he handed her a pack
of cards.

ANNE GABEL.

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